Book review:
You will be lost, you are not going home, you are gone, silence will claim you, suck your life down into its black waters and churn out stars that might remember you, but if they do they will not say, they will not say, and if no one will say your name you are forgotten. I am forgotten.
You are not forgotten, Agnes Magnúsdóttir. Centuries apart, a woman from the other end of the world was spellbound by your story; after long years of research, she crafted a novel abounding in historical details, completing the missing pieces with her own imagination. You are brought to life again, mysterious being with dark hair and strange blue eyes, barely known by her peers; you are given a voice to speak for yourself in words of poetry.
I was pleasantly surprised by Hannah Kent's debut novel, a 'dark love letter to Iceland' - in her own words. Historical documents are presented at the beginning of each chapter and the abundance of details creates an engrossing, authentic atmosphere. Since I'm familiar with the Iceland from Halldór Laxness' novels, it was a different kind of experience to see the country and its people through the eyes of a foreigner.
In Burial Rites, Hannah Kent paints an ambiguous portrait of Agnes Magnúsdóttir, accused of murder and sentenced to death by decapitation in 19th century Iceland. In a compelling narrative that sticks close to the real facts, Hannah Kent gives a voice to Agnes, the young woman who didn't have a chance to tell her version of the story during the trials of her time. The truth mattered less in her case - she was meant to be an example for all the wrong-doers who stained the peaceful land of Iceland. Her intelligence and people's prejudices condemned her in the end.
Agnes didn't have much luck in life. Abandoned by her mother, she led a life of poverty as a parish pauper, later working as a maid from farm to farm. Her strange way of talking, high intelligence and knowledge of sagas keep people away; she has few friends and almost nobody knows who she truly is. Agnes falls in love with Natan Ketilsson, the first person to acknowledge her worth, the first to saw her as she truly was. She moves to Natan's farm by the sea, an isolated place populated by a handful of people. Slowly, a darker side of Natan's manipulative personality unravels. The better life that Agnes had hoped for turns out to be something else entirely. In the end, Natan Ketilsson is murdered - but is indeed Agnes responsible for his death?
They see I've got a head on my shoulders, and believe a thinking woman cannot be trusted. Believe there's no room for innocence. At first I did not know why these people stood about, men and women alike, each still and staring at me in silence. Then I understood that these people did not see me. I was two dead men. I was a burning farm. I was a knife. I was blood.
While she awaits her sentence, Agnes is confined in local farms, because there are no prisons to speak of. She is regarded as a monster, beaten and starved, treated worse than an animal. It is harrowing to see how people's perception and beliefs obliterate their humanity. How prejudice can darken reason and pity.
In her last prison-home, Agnes has a chance to tell her version of the story. Will she be listened, will she be believed? Will the truth bring her salvation? Although I knew in the back of my mind how the novel was going to end, I refrained from reading more about Agnes' story, because I had the groundless hope that truth was going to prevail in the end. But I misjudged the strength of people's superstitions and prejudices, which spread and swell, taking the illusory, yet strong, shape of reality.
This novel reminded me of Heinrich Böll's The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum, where people also distort the statements and facts, with no concern for the individual whose life they are destroying. It is a sad reality of our race that a more civilized society won't bring a notable change to people's craving for gossip and susceptibility to influence.
I remain quiet. I am determined to close myself to the world, to tighten my heart and hold on to what has not yet been stolen from me. I cannot let myself slip away. I will hold what I am inside, and keep my hands tight around all the things I have seen and heard, and felt.
The first book trailer that I've ever watched is for Burial Rites. The beginning gave me goosebumps:
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